


Fingertip Memory

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink meme prompt: John likes how thin Sherlock is, how easy it is to bend him into position and the way they fit together during sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingertip Memory

Sherlock has always been an interesting man.

(It began with alcohol—small amounts, but many—and London's lights and heavy tarmac and the _smell_ , of whiskey chasers and stale rain, Sherlock's coat full of second hand smoke as John pressed his mouth to it.)

John likes interesting. John has always been a magnet for the typical, bland, beige cable knits and sensible shoes. Sherlock very much _isn't_ ; he is an explosion, full bodied and dangerous. Cases aren't fun unless it brings them closer to death.

So it happened again.

(And less and less with the aid of alcohol, and more and more in laptop-light, the pillow dark under Sherlock's hair, the arch of his neck. They gained momentum, John pressing his tongue to the tip of his teeth, the synapses and nerve endings, Sherlock's bones knotted in his. _I knew you wanted to fuck_ , Sherlock had said, gleeful and breathless as John ground him against the desk. _I knew it, I knew it, ha!_ He had the sort of laughter you could burn yourself on.)

John doesn't really know how long it's been. Their nights are slippy and frantic, from research and phonecalls. There are mugs of tea stacked chin-high and bullet holes in the wall. Everything begins to blur after the second month, and Sherlock-in-bed is just another element. Sherlock without clothes. Just. Sherlock. Sherlock's skin, and flesh, and warmth, and the fingerprint bruises John finds on his arms, sometimes, after a case that nearly killed them both (again).

Tonight, it's a mother who lost her son ten years ago, and a lazy police department from some small up-north town. Sherlock is pushing himself from the desk after ten hours of black taxis and internet records. John can feel the peel of nervous energy, a suggestion, as Sherlock's fingers linger a little long on the back of his chair.

(He is very angular. Long, narrow legs, good with his elbows; John is no stranger to being stabbed, and neither is Mycroft, Lestrade. _Anderson_. He has the body perfect for a suit: tall, elegant, _malleable_. John has often wondered what his waist would feel like in his hands, and doesn’t so much now.)

Here, John grants himself the time to stare. He has Sherlock's belt in one hand, tugging his shirt up with the other. His stomach is flat and warm as John presses a palm to it, the dip between his hipbones stark. Lights colour Sherlock's face through the window—the shadow of his cheekbones, deep set of his eyes: they are almost repellant but fascinating, different by increments as he turns towards him.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks, the highlight of his cheek intimating his smile. "You're staring."

John laughs under his breath. "Nothing. Shut up, now," he says, and hooks Sherlock's calf over his shoulder.

John has had sex before, but Sherlock is _something_. Sherlock is just—right: right amount of edges, right amount of lines and motion, right amount of _oh_. Sherlock's ankle to his back, every shift and snap of bone, the stripe of his brow as John mouths to it, desperate and close. They fit.

Another thing: Sherlock, selfish in life, is giving in bed—or lazy, because John is free to push his knee back to the bed, and pull his head close to bite his neck. John is fascinated by his flexibility. There is something in the way Sherlock arches, ribs obvious but not painfully, when John pins back his wrists; he's fluid and artless and graceful, all bones. The sort of body John could fall in love with, and has, and the second time he saw Sherlock, he wondered what it would be like to wake up next to it.

(Interesting. Sherlock is scrutinising even when _absolutely_ naked.)

Dirty morning light is starting to spill on to Sherlock's back. It makes the shadows of his spine more obvious, brilliant. John is tempted to turn him over and spend another hour tracing his shoulder blades, how the muscle, ropy but powerful, travels all the way to his thighs. But Sherlock’s breathing has gone laboured, and he's starting to move back against him.

"Hurry up," Sherlock says, not unkind but urging. His voice hitches when John presses his thumb against the slit of his cock. And then, breathless: "Oh. Good."

Sherlock tenses as John speeds up, pumping him to a finish. The sinew of his neck goes sharp, chest heaving, and John follows, pressing the heels of his hands deep into his flanks. He pulls out with a sigh, tired but content, and lays himself down.

It's really morning, now: the sun is hot, blaring across his stomach and there is the familiar trill of his mobile in the other room. Still, it's warm, and he's comfortable, and they're erratic with their sleep schedule anyway.

(He sleeps with his arm still around Sherlock's waist.)

 

The next day, Mrs. Hudson is bustling and loud and threateningly motherly. She has a teapot and two cups, a plate of chocolate digestives and shortbread.

"Oh dear, Sherlock," she coos, pressing her hand to her collarbone, mouth twisted. "You're looking so thin, these days—one worries, you know! _Do_ have another biscuit."

"Mrs. Hudson," he says, smooth, smiling carefully and over-practiced. "I couldn’t possibly."

She shrugs, and John is left to ignore the pointed glances Sherlock sends his way all morning.


End file.
